faltered when he saw Grieg and turned to leave.
‘Don’t go Betts. We’ll have that meeting now,’ said Fitzjohn, a sense of satisfaction taking hold.
Put off by the interruption, Grieg turned to go. ‘I want a daily account of everything on the Harford matter, Fitzjohn,’ he said as he pushed past the men who hovered in the doorway.
As the door slammed behind him Fitzjohn slumped back down into his chair, throwing his glasses onto the desk. ‘He’s a bastard of a man,’ he said under his breath.
Surprised as well as pleased by Fitzjohn’s uncharacteristic frankness regarding the much loathed Superintendent, Betts unbuttoned his suit coat and settled himself into the chair in front of Fitzjohn’s desk, wishing he could add his own sentiments. Oblivious to Fitzjohn’s disquiet, Detective Constables Williams and Saunders sauntered into the room. Williams, a sallow looking individual, perched himself on the edge of a two draw filing cabinet near the window while Saunders sat on the remaining chair in front of Fitzjohn’s desk.
‘No Carruthers?’ asked Fitzjohn. As he spoke, a knock sounded on the door and a tall, heavily built young man hobbled into the room. ‘Ah, speak of the... It’s good to see you back, Carruthers.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Sit here,’ said Betts, rising from his chair and perching himself on the corner of Fitzjohn’s desk. The four men watched as Carruthers slumped down heavily.
‘What happened to you, Carruthers? If you don’t mind me asking.’ said Fitzjohn.
‘A rugby tackle, sir.’
‘Och.’ Fitzjohn grimaced. ‘I had the same experience once.’ Incredulous, the four young police officers stared at Fitzjohn.
‘You played rugby, sir?’ asked Saunders, a hint of a smile on his face.
Aware that he had inadvertently opened up the flood gates for a fresh butt of jokes referring to his athletic ability, Fitzjohn replied, ‘Admittedly it was some time ago, but yes. Put pay to my football career.’ This last statement brought a roar of laughter.
After a moment, Fitzjohn lifted his hands. ‘I’m glad, gentlemen, that I’ve been able to lighten your day, but now let’s turn our attention to the matters at hand. How did each of you get on?’
Betts took his notebook from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open. ‘I had a bit of luck with my inquiries, sir. I talked to the reception clerk who was on duty last night at the Sir Stamford hotel. He said Dr Harford received a visitor in The Bar at around 6pm. According to the barman, they talked for about an hour.’
‘Does this visitor have a name?’
‘Yes, a Mr Piers LaSalle.’
‘Unusual name. Shouldn’t be too difficult to track him down. See what you can find out, Betts.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Betts paused. ‘Next, I spoke to Claire Howell, who is the woman Dr Harford claims called on him on Wednesday evening.’
‘And?’
‘Dr Howell denies it, sir. She said she hasn’t seen Dr Harford since before he left for South America a year ago.’
‘That’s interesting. One of them is lying. I wonder which one.’ Fitzjohn paused before continuing. ‘You said, Dr Howell, Betts.’
‘Yes, sir. She’s an academic and works at the University of Sydney in the Faculty of Economics and Business. Her husband, Matthew Howell, also an academic, works in the same school as Nicholas Harford, the School of Geosciences.’
Fitzjohn’s eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps that explains why she denies seeing Harford. Attractive is she?’
A smile came to Betts’s face. ‘Very.’
Fitzjohn looked across at Williams whose sullen disposition made Fitzjohn wonder, at times, whether he had chosen the right career. ‘How did you and Saunders get on Williams?’
‘We called in at the Shangri-la and spoke to the doorman, sir. He remembers Julia Harford leaving the hotel just before eight o’clock on Wednesday evening accompanied by Mr Thomas
‘Don’t go Betts. We’ll have that meeting now,’ said Fitzjohn, a sense of satisfaction taking hold.
Put off by the interruption, Grieg turned to go. ‘I want a daily account of everything on the Harford matter, Fitzjohn,’ he said as he pushed past the men who hovered in the doorway.
As the door slammed behind him Fitzjohn slumped back down into his chair, throwing his glasses onto the desk. ‘He’s a bastard of a man,’ he said under his breath.
Surprised as well as pleased by Fitzjohn’s uncharacteristic frankness regarding the much loathed Superintendent, Betts unbuttoned his suit coat and settled himself into the chair in front of Fitzjohn’s desk, wishing he could add his own sentiments. Oblivious to Fitzjohn’s disquiet, Detective Constables Williams and Saunders sauntered into the room. Williams, a sallow looking individual, perched himself on the edge of a two draw filing cabinet near the window while Saunders sat on the remaining chair in front of Fitzjohn’s desk.
‘No Carruthers?’ asked Fitzjohn. As he spoke, a knock sounded on the door and a tall, heavily built young man hobbled into the room. ‘Ah, speak of the... It’s good to see you back, Carruthers.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Sit here,’ said Betts, rising from his chair and perching himself on the corner of Fitzjohn’s desk. The four men watched as Carruthers slumped down heavily.
‘What happened to you, Carruthers? If you don’t mind me asking.’ said Fitzjohn.
‘A rugby tackle, sir.’
‘Och.’ Fitzjohn grimaced. ‘I had the same experience once.’ Incredulous, the four young police officers stared at Fitzjohn.
‘You played rugby, sir?’ asked Saunders, a hint of a smile on his face.
Aware that he had inadvertently opened up the flood gates for a fresh butt of jokes referring to his athletic ability, Fitzjohn replied, ‘Admittedly it was some time ago, but yes. Put pay to my football career.’ This last statement brought a roar of laughter.
After a moment, Fitzjohn lifted his hands. ‘I’m glad, gentlemen, that I’ve been able to lighten your day, but now let’s turn our attention to the matters at hand. How did each of you get on?’
Betts took his notebook from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open. ‘I had a bit of luck with my inquiries, sir. I talked to the reception clerk who was on duty last night at the Sir Stamford hotel. He said Dr Harford received a visitor in The Bar at around 6pm. According to the barman, they talked for about an hour.’
‘Does this visitor have a name?’
‘Yes, a Mr Piers LaSalle.’
‘Unusual name. Shouldn’t be too difficult to track him down. See what you can find out, Betts.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Betts paused. ‘Next, I spoke to Claire Howell, who is the woman Dr Harford claims called on him on Wednesday evening.’
‘And?’
‘Dr Howell denies it, sir. She said she hasn’t seen Dr Harford since before he left for South America a year ago.’
‘That’s interesting. One of them is lying. I wonder which one.’ Fitzjohn paused before continuing. ‘You said, Dr Howell, Betts.’
‘Yes, sir. She’s an academic and works at the University of Sydney in the Faculty of Economics and Business. Her husband, Matthew Howell, also an academic, works in the same school as Nicholas Harford, the School of Geosciences.’
Fitzjohn’s eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps that explains why she denies seeing Harford. Attractive is she?’
A smile came to Betts’s face. ‘Very.’
Fitzjohn looked across at Williams whose sullen disposition made Fitzjohn wonder, at times, whether he had chosen the right career. ‘How did you and Saunders get on Williams?’
‘We called in at the Shangri-la and spoke to the doorman, sir. He remembers Julia Harford leaving the hotel just before eight o’clock on Wednesday evening accompanied by Mr Thomas
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